


other times of waking

by ghost_lingering



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:43:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_lingering/pseuds/ghost_lingering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And still she dreamed of when her father died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	other times of waking

**Author's Note:**

> This is weird, but [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mordororbust/profile)[**mordororbust**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mordororbust/) assures me that the weird works.

As a child, Morgana dreamt as if the visions were games and she would play at making them come true, or not. But then she dreamed the day her father died and something stilled inside of her. She moved to the castle and drank Gaius' potions like many glasses of wine. The potions worked for a time, but the headaches rolled her over and every day she felt like she was opening new eyes that never closed, that she was waking up from other times of waking.

And still she dreamed of when her father died.

She dreamed him other times as well, dreamed his calloused hands stroked her hair as she lay asleep, feverishly dreaming. She dreamed of how he folded his long fingers around her stubby child's hands as they both gripped the practice sword and swung. She dreamed of how he cried at midsummer when she touched his rough-beard cheeks and came away with fingers full of tears. She dreamed of how his face went grey with news of witches burning.

She dreamed of other fathers, too. She dreamed of Tom, of how he learned to keep the house, the stroking broom like the stroking of a steel hot fire. Of how he cradled baby Gwen when her fingers froze in winter, crying softly as he traced her nose and thought of how she had her mother's face. She dreamed of how he kissed another woman, once, years after his wife's bones were cold and somewhere in the ground, and how he pulled away and shook his head and stayed alone.

She dreamed of the druid boy's father, how his head rolled like pine cones dropping from the trees, like tears rolling down a child's cheeks, while his son's cheeks were still pale and dry. She dreamed she dreamt his dreams: his wife singing softly until her throat was slit by bandits, his boy's first wobbled steps, his boy a man grown tall and wiry whose hands were bloodied by the knife plunged deep in Arthur's chest amid the cries of battle. When she dreamed the druid boy's father, it's as if she dreamed a druid's dreams, though she never dreamed of other druids.

For a long time she only dreamed of fathers, and so she thought, through dreams, that she was never meant to be a mother. But then she dreamed of willows swaying and how the wind called out as Hunith pushed a baby boy into the world. She dreamed of dragons roaring and the waves crashing into rocky shores. She dreamed of clouds, piling high into the sky and going dark and sending lightning cracking. She dreamed of what it's like to choke on magic, drowning on the driest stretch of land, eyes burning with unshed tears, of what it's like for rain to beat and beat and beat until it finally penetrates the earth. She dreamed of Hunith crying, though she never dreamt of mothers.

She dreamed of Arthur and laying with him in the grass, but not like they had when they were both still children. She dreamed of nine months later when she birthed a dead, painful corpse. She dreamed the druid boy—a young man now—crawled in her bleeding sheets, placed his hands on her breasts, looked at her eyes, and thought into her mind, "You don't need his child—you have _me_." She looked away, hardly noticing the tears, and then she dreamed that Arthur, golden Arthur, blood-red Arthur started touching Morgana's lovely, barren Gwen, and let himself be touched. Arthur who never knew he was for nine long months a father, never knew the kicking thing which had squirmed inside her womb. When she woke from these dreams it was with a dryness in her throat and a dulling pain between her thighs.

She dreamed of Uther, once or twice, dreamt of how his Queen had died at his behest for breeding. She dreamed of Uther grasping Nimue, dreamed of two sets of piercing blue eyes that were the cruelest kind of fire, dreamed of Uther burning, dreamed of Uther drinking burning swill, dreamed of Uther watching as his child played with daggers, dreamed of Uther never shedding tears. Dreamed of how he curled around in bed and wept while he was sleeping.

And she wished him tears: she wished he dreamt her father, gutted by a steel-wrought blade. Her father died in grief, still brittle from when her mother drank in poison to escape a set of dreams which burned like Uther's fires. Morgana dreams, her head atop a pillow with a vial of poison underneath. And, though she has not dreamed it, she knows that a day will come when she will drink, and drink, and drink even deeper and still her dreams the first and final time for good.


End file.
